By: Tommy Druen
Guest Columnist
My uncle collected comic books. Growing up, that meant I had access to stories far beyond the standard superheroes my friends knew. But it wasn’t the adventures that hooked me most—it was the encyclopedias: The Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe and DC’s Who’s Who. They cataloged every character with details like aliases, first appearances, and, most fascinating to me, origin stories.
Origins mattered because they explained the “why.” They showed the crucible moments that turned ordinary people into something greater—or darker. Peter Parker became Spider-Man not because of the spider bite, but because of the guilt he carried after Uncle Ben’s death. Bruce Wayne donned the cape because he couldn’t endure others suffering as he had when his parents were gunned down in an alley. (Granted, not every character had that depth—sorry, Matter-Eater Lad.) Still, origin stories revealed purpose.
We may not have superpowers, but we all have our own origin stories. Mine includes 1992, when I was 14 and entering eighth grade. My mom received the class roster, and I eagerly searched for guys I hoped were on it. None were there. Not even the boys I didn’t like. By fate or mischief, I landed in a class with eight boys and twenty girls. Many would envy those odds. My 14-year-old self did not.
Yet that year became my favorite. I learned quite a bit, mostly outside of the textbooks. It was like I was living in a lab related to how girls thought. It was also the year that Trinidadian-German artist Haddaway made us all ponder the question: “What is Love?” (Feel free to pause here for a Will Ferrell–Chris Kattan head bob.) The answer, I discovered, was that I could truly love a girl—or an entire gaggle of them—on a purely platonic level. The romantic love we mostly think of would evade me for a long time. And that was okay.
However, by my final semester of college, I worried a little. I was at the ripe old age of 22 and I still hadn’t met “the one.” It wasn’t like I was without passion though. It just typically was on the golf course. Everyone has a love language; at the time, mine involved a straight drive and a long putt. Then, one cold winter night, I fired up AOL Instant Messenger and randomly messaged someone with the handle “Chem Nerd 7.” It turned out to belong to a freshman at Georgetown College. We talked that night. And the next. And the next. Soon, our conversations weren’t distractions from my classes and golf, but rather they were distractions from our conversations.
Eventually, I did the unthinkable and asked to meet. To my surprise, she agreed to hang out together in her dorm. Her friends checked in often, making sure she was safe from the “random internet boy.” I didn’t mind. Their concern meant she was someone worth protecting.
From that night forward, I’m not sure we’ve gone a single day without talking. That online chat became my true origin story. I soon could easily time the drive to Georgetown. Career plans shifted. Before long, I was picking out China patterns and looking at house plans with someone who had soon before been just words on a screen.
It’s now been more than 25 years since I met Erin Scott, and 22 since she took my name at the altar. Together we’ve shared joys, sorrows, two remarkable children, and the daily rhythm of life. Logically, I know the odds are slim that one person could simultaneously be the kindest, funniest, most compassionate, and most beautiful woman alive. Yet, in my heart, I know it’s true.
Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians describe love as patient, kind, not envious or boastful, never conceited or selfish. I believe all of that. But I’ve also learned that love can be clumsy, stubborn, moody, independent, charming hilarious, and deeply faithful.
So when Haddaway asked, “What is Love?” I think of Justice Potter Stewart’s famous line about obscenity: he couldn’t define it, but he knew it when he saw it. I know love every time I see Erin Scott Druen, and miss her when I’m not in the room with her, and my soul is filled with a love unlike any other I ever will experience.
My hope is simply that others may be just as fortunate.
